


Hansel

by Aris_Silverfin, FatlocknDomJohn



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Body Horror, Force Feeding, Horror, M/M, Weight Gain, dark!fic, non con feeding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-12
Updated: 2014-07-14
Packaged: 2018-02-04 10:18:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 13,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1775518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aris_Silverfin/pseuds/Aris_Silverfin, https://archiveofourown.org/users/FatlocknDomJohn/pseuds/FatlocknDomJohn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John are kidnapped by Moriarty, plopped into a twisted fantasy-land where the walls are made of sweets and a trail of breadcrumbs leads the way to your freedom...or do they?</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Warnings - Off-screen popping of various stomachs, heard but not seen - this is a horror work, on top of massive weight gain - this is a kink work</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Game is On

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as a kink rp between the amazingly talented Aris and myself.
> 
> I wrote Sherlock and the various twisted recordings you hear throughout the work
> 
> She wrote John and Moran - both of us playing Moriarty and the mysterious witch
> 
> Further chapters will be longer!
> 
> And once again - things wont be too visually gory, but there is description of popping and therefore death
> 
> Please enjoy this twisted and horrific tale! More will be coming soon!

In a flurry of movement, Sherlock sweeps down the stairs, tails of his coat swooping dramatically behind him, purple shirt clingingly tightly to his bony chest and tight, toned stomach. Thin, stork-like legs arms wrapped in their usual tight, black trousers, long arms swinging dramatically as he announces, "Case, John! Fourty-three year old bachelor found dead in the tub from an apparent drug overdo-"

 

Sherlock freezes as he enter the kitchen, where John lays passed out on the floor, his usual tea-mug shattered. Warm, dark tea drippling in a puddle toward the shoulder of his flat mate’s tan, cuddly jumper

He crosses to John, not entirely sensing the danger in the air, too focused on the frightful image before him. Sherlock sniffs the small pond of tea - drugged.

The next thing he knows, Sherlock is hoisted off his feet as if he weighs nothing, which he essentially does, a strong, thick arm closing around his neck. Sherlock kicks and flails his legs, but to no avail.

Darkness consumes his field of vision

He passes out  
  
**********

John wakes up for what feels like the second time today. He blinks, but his vision swims. And he is definitely not lying in bed. No, the surface his face is pressed into is cold and unbelievably hard. He blinks again, feeling panicked confusion ebb up slowly from his chest to battle with reason.

 

_What... what... I had woken as usual. Had made my tea... Oh bloody hell, if Sherlock had drugged the sugar bowl again then-_

John blinks. _I'm definitely not in the kitchen._ A small circle of bright, bright light falls on me where he lays. He can't see the walls of the room, has no idea how big it is, but it feels ancient. There's thick dust on the stone floor. He blinks up into the light. _Flourescents bulbs... what?_

 

John shakes his head. His drowsiness is quickly wearing off, but he’s still none the wiser about where he is. John looks around, confused. There's a bundle, a dark bundle laying there.

 

"Sherlock?" He breathes, voice barely above a whisper. John’s hand goes automatically to his belt. He’s surprised, but relieved, to find his gun there.

****

Sherlock blinks his eyes open, and with a grunt rolls over onto his back, senses going into overdrive as he processes the situation.  
  
 _My neck is stiff, but that would be apparent seeing as I was choked into unconsciousness._

 

The detective sits up, not enough excess fat even make tiny rolls as he bends forward to help himself stand.

 

The room is dark, except for one, single, illuminated television hanging out...but actually it appears to be more part of...the wall. Its edges look...like gingerbread, decorated as if to make a child's eyes go wide with wonder, and some - some very small part of our hero - actually feels that way. The frosting is intricate, riddled with gumdrops and little, chocolate-chip smiley face. Sherlock feels his mouth water ever-so-slightly, but then re-focuses on what's on the screen - John.

 

He’s standing - a soldier's posture, strong biceps filling the arms of his jumper. He’s looking about, shrewdly, attempting to discern just where he is. The room in which our hero’s flat-mate stands appears to have one door - large and ornate...again gingerbread - in the back of the room, it’s too dark for John to see without a bit of exploration, but with the contrast on Sherlock’s television he’s able to observe it.

 

There's a small note in the corner of the television - "Find out where he is in one guess, or he's dead - With love, JM"

 

Sherlock feels a stab of cold in his gut. _Moriarty?! One guess, one guess. How can I possibly know where-_

 

The detective’s eyes light up, and he stomps hard on the floor - then sees John look up on the screen.

 

A smug grin emerges on his face and he whispers -

 

"The game is on."


	2. A World of Pure Imagination

                A thump. _From where?_ John looks up at the ceiling, small flecks of dust disturbed from their resting place. _Someone else is here._ John goes back to the bundle on the floor and withdraws in shock. It’s a soldier's uniform, dusty as the floor, the head in the helmet only a grinning skull. John swallows and rolls his unfortunate predecessor over, rummaging in his pockets for clues about how he could avoid that same fate. He is certainly in a war zone, and somehow he has little doubt that Sherlock’s here too.

 

A glimmer in the corner catches his eye and John steps out of the circle of light to get a better look. A camera. Okay. So very not good.  The ex-army doctor weighs his gun in his hand, uncertain, then walks over to inspect one of the walls. His hand come back gritty. _What the hell?_ John walks back into the light for a better look. It looks like... sugar? He notices then, that his dead cell mate has a small plastic box in one hand.  He pushes the small ejected tape in, rewinds, and presses play.

 

It crackles, the now dead man is panting.   
  
_I-I ran-_ static- _Last-last one left .I’ve got to be. Others-_ static _\- couldn't stop-_ static _-keep fighting-have to-_ a loud and quite nasty cry followed by the sound of several clicks and loud chewing.

Oh God. He needs to get out.  
  
  
*****

Alright then - facts.

 

Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, and his flatmate, John Watson, have been kidnapped by Moriarty. They were taken to a large, most likely secluded, building somewhere outside of London. No one, as far as they know, is aware of their abduction as of late, though soon either Sherlock’s brother or Gibby Lestrade will start searching.

Everything appears to be made of sweets. Sherlock extends a long arm and pokes a finger into the 'frosting' on the televison, only to find it actually _is_ frosting.

The detective’s eyes widen and he brings the white bit of icing towards his face. He gives it a sniff - Yes, it’s actually sugar. Sherlock sticks out his tongue to take a taste, but the gingerbread door behind him, one that he firmly knows wasn’t there a moment ago, swings open.  He spies another, a closed door that has appeared in the corner , and pushes that one open.

Sherlock steps into the new room.

This area is brightly lit, colorful to the point of being nauseating, and there's happy, childish music playing over some sort of loudspeaker. The "bean-bag chair" in the corner looks to be an enormous cinnamon bun. The happy-face clock on the wall, a sugar-cookie with icing. The table - made of what seems to be fudge - has small bowls filled with gummy bears and peanut-butter cups. Something flutters in the detective’s heart, a sense of childhood he’d never allowed himself. Then something gurgles in his midsection. The stomach he had denied all these sweets growing up wanting just a taste of all the happy treats around it.

The music stops suddenly and he shakes his head. Looking down, Sherlock spies a small trail of blue...bread crumbs?  He follows them out, finding that they lead to another room.

 

**********

 

Somewhere in a control room, Moriarty snarls.

"No! I told you, _John_ is meant to be tempted by the sweets – haven’t you even _read_ the story you’re supposed to be in!?" He slams his fists down on the table angrily, but pauses for just a moment as two startlingly blue eyes blink open from the wall, staring at him. They close a moment later. He swallows.

 

**********

 

There's a heavy creaking noise behind John and he spins around, pocketing his cellmate's dodgy voice recorder. There's now a rectangle of light that illuminates the room besides the light source in the ceiling. A door.  John walks towards it, gun in hand, but creeps carefully around to conceal himself behind the wall as he peers out. It's dimly lit, but the walls are still unmistakably iced and browned.

This was either the weirdest dream John has ever experienced, or he was still on some sort of whacked out trip from the drugs in his tea. He holds his gun at the ready as he steps out. There's a rustle in the room, a soft one as if something big is shifting, slipping along the dusty floor. John checks a corner to his left and then creeps slowly towards it.

Whatever is in the room with him scuttles past, light glinting off a hard shell. John feel revulsion coil in his stomach. Something about the clicks and the movements reminds him of a cockroach but impossibly large. Suddenly, there's a loud electronic crackle and John sinks up against the wall to hide from this new hell.

"Sorry, boys! Change of plan! Greatest weakness you know, but I like to think it can work well in certain evolving situations!" declares a bright cheery tone with only coldness behind it.

John knows that voice. He grips my gun a bit harder.

"So here's the _new_ idea. You find each other… Soon. Or you both die. Have fun!"

Shit. Okay. So Sherlock is here. He's alright. He's moving. John feels a rush of relief and makes his way over to another doorway. As soon as he crosses the threshold the door slams shut behind him and John sinks back into a crouch. Lights flicker and come back up.

John feels his jaw drop. It's like... Candyland. That shitty game Harry always wanted to play when they were kids. Everything in the room seemed to be composed of some sort of sugar or sweet. A delectable smell of baking gingerbread fills the doctor’s nose, but eating is the last thing on his mind just now.

Somehow this setting is even more unnerving. There's another scuttle. This one sounds even heavier. John swallows and slips the safety off.

 

*****

 

Sherlock follows the trail of breadcrumbs a bit farther. He hears a voice come over the intercom and actually smiles.

Good, that meant that John isn’t trapped in one room - he's up and moving. They'll find each other and figure this puzzle out together - Someone needs to be here to admire a genius at work.

He steps into the room he was supposed to enter - this one seeming much more familiar.

It’s a lab, or at least it should be – it’s still much too playful in its atmosphere to be taken seriously. But that strangely growing, childish, part of Sherlock wants to laugh at the ridiculousness and honestly the sheer... fun of the room.

The test tubes and beakers are much too large and bubbling and boiling with the smell of fresh baked cherry and blueberry pie - their extremely obnoxious colors of bright blue and red giving off the opposing scents - which makes the childish part of him only want to giggle harder.

The tiles on the floor are white, along with the walls, but give off such a gritty, yet dazzling, sheen it’s clear they’re pure blocks of sugar. The tables are again decorated gingerbread - details becoming even more intricate, as if the house is trying to impress the detective... or lead him into its web.

Sherlock can’t help his curiosity and reaches out to touch one of the beakers, just to see if it’s real. He withdraws his hand with a small yelp. It’s real - and painfully hot.

He hears a faucet open behind him, a sink he could swear wasn’t there before, cold water pouring from it - a bizarre peace offering. Sherlock puts his hand under it, cooling the burn, but when he pulls back his whole hand smells like blue Kool-Aid. He grimaces and wipes his hand on his coat.

The breadcrumbs lead Sherlock to a corner, where two large photographs hang on the wall in gingerbread frames. The first is a small platoon of soldiers - eight strong, incredibly fit men in uniforms and trooper hats - their faces stern, postures straight - looking very much like John.

The second is a group of seven twenty-something-year-olds, all male again aside from one girl at the very end, all essentially fit and strong, or thin and wiry, holding bits of camera equipment or microphones - a documentary team perhaps. The man in the middle sassily poses a tape recorder to his mouth, and he’s the only one among them that’s chubby - looking about twenty or so pounds overweight

Looking closer it becomes clear these aren’t photographs... they’re paintings. Paintings made entirely out of... Sherlock moves a finger across the sky in the background of the solders image, and his finger comes off purple and blue....entirely out of frosting

There’s a recording tape and player on the ground below the photos - Sherlock picks it up and presses play.

 

" _Hello..testing_." There's a laugh, and someone in the background shouts, _'Come Mick lets go already!_ ' " _Well let’s just say this works then! This is Mickey! Head of the DocuDrama Team, recording notes for our assignment from Professor Liteh! We're about to go inside the infamous 'haunted house' a few towns over and try and figure out what exactly happened to that platoon a year ago!_ " another voice in the background says _'OoooO! The witch got them_!' followed by the only girl's voice, _'Come off it Bryan you're gonna scare me!_ ' _'It’s ok babe, I got 'there guns' to protect you!_ ' Theres a round of laughter from the group, the boy has obviously flexed. " _Well, here we go!"_

The recording ends, and Sherlock tucks the player and the tape into his coat pocket, before moving through another small door into a candy-cane decorated hallway.

So, a group of soldiers disappeared here, this just gets more and more interesting.  


  
******

 

The scuttle is coming closer, moving more slowly than whatever passed by John earlier. The ex army doctor hides behind a desk that seems to be made of dark chocolate. There’s a soft clicking noise as the scuttling pauses. The sound of chewing. John measures his breath even as his heart pounds and scoots carefully away across the floor. He looks back

Oh God. He must have gone mad.

A giant cockroach, bigger than any cockroach or any insect had the right to be is chewing at the chocolate John had just been using as cover. The pincers click, feelers swivel, and bulging eyes focus on… him. Surely, this can't be real. It can't, this is all impossible!

Well impossible or not, it's coming towards him. And it’s not looking remotely friendly as those pincers open, a mouth gaping behind it. John raises his gun and fires coolly, the bullet soaring true through the creature's maw into its brain. It makes an odd shrieking noise and falls, many legs twitching.

John stands to move away from it, then hears more clicks. His hand closes on his gun. Good thing he’s got a few more rounds. This could actually be fun. A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.

The ex army doctor’s, the soldier’s, new adversaries are scuttling over the candy furniture, squeaking and clicking, their jaws open and menacing. John takes aim. And fires.


	3. Turkish Delight

The hallway is quiet, except for the sound of that cheery music, which Sherlock can’t help but find himself bouncing along to. He hears gunshots, and rushes towards what appears to be some brownie-based stairs.

John was below him, it would only make sense to go down them. There’s a small puzzle at the doorway - as if the house is testing him. Sherlock smirks and looks at it. It’s honestly quite simple, childish. He moves a few chocolaty pieces around and expects the door to open.

He tries it again in another pattern, then another, before simply pounding on the gate with his hands, throwing what John would call a tantrum.

The house seems to resettle; pleased in a dark way by Sherlock’s dismissal of its puzzle as something the great detective didn’t want.

The barricade recedes, but just as Sherlock is about to go down the stairs, he feels a figure move behind him. He spins about, but his assailant has tackled him at the waist and they fly backward, Sherlock’s bony bottom leaving a sharp, but tiny, imprint on the soft stairs.

He brings his hands down to grab at it, surprised, when he can lift it up easily.  He holds it at full arm’s length away from himself.

There, struggling and kicking its small, stubby limbs at the detective holding it, is a child-sized gummy bear, red as blood.

Sherlock stares at it, jaw dropping open, brain suddenly halting its spinning gears as it attempts to understand what he’s looking at. The bear uses this chance to wiggle out of Sherlock’s grip, pushing his arms away and hurling itself at the detective’s face. Sherlock braces for a blow, but opens his eyes again in surprise when he finds the creature demandingly shoving its ear at his mouth. Sherlock stares, closing his mouth tighter as it tries again with its nubby little arm and leg, all producing the same affect.

It lets out a small whine, then starts quietly crying, holding a little arm over its dead, black, button eyes as it runs back up the stairs and its cries echo down the hall.

Sherlock’s mouth falls open in confusion, a small part of him feeling guilty over not having devoured the creature whole. But he shakes that thought from his mind, straightens up, brushes himself of, and runs towards the sound of the gunshots

 

*****

 

One bullet left. John can only hope there aren't any more of the bastards around. He takes aim and fires at the last one, then walks past where it lays twitching and dying in a squirmy tangle of legs. He can hear music from somewhere. It's oddly muffled, coming through a wall. He presses his ear to it, feeling the brick hard gingerbread go soft at his touch. John pulls away, frowning. The bricks he touched have become beautifully golden, as if freshly baked. He can even feel the warmth radiate from them. The rest, untouched, remain solid, old, and dry.

Maybe... maybe he could break through the soft stuff.  


John looks around for a utensil that won't crumble at his touch. A silver fork is suddenly laying on the table behind him.

"Come on, Johnny boy, I know you're slow, but even you should have worked this out. Gingerbread. Eat!"

John jump as the intercom comes on again, that maniac taunting him. If there's one thing John knows, it's not to trust James Moriarty. He takes the fork and tries to gouge a hole in the wall, but the gingerbread seems only to puff up more, filling in the space as soon as he’s made it.

"Ah-ah, Johnny, you're making a terrible mess. None of that. DON'T PLAY WITH YOUR FOOD!"

"Fuck off," John mutters, turning away from the wall and looking around the room again. A door, which looks like solid chocolate, catches his eye. He steps towards it and his foot nudges a small box that rattles.

The army doctor picks it up and stares at it in disbelief. More bullets. John quickly loads his gun and makes for the door, pushing it open. The corridor is dark, but smells dank rather than sweet. I stand for a moment, trying to let my eyes adjust.

 

                                                                                              *****

 

Meanwhile, Jim Moriarty is throwing a tantrum. "Look, you! It's thanks to me you've got all this! That you have victims! All I want is for you to DO AS I SAY! WHY ISN'T IT WORKING?"

The eyes stare solemnly back and a low murmur echoes back in a voice that slurs with a German accent. "Different appetites."

 

******

 

Sherlock moves down the staircase, the cheery music turning a bit louder, and since it’s on repeat he feels like he knows every note now, and can’t help but hum along.

He reaches the bottom of the stairs, and in front of him sits a sugary, pink, wafer door. A small, clear, heart-shaped window reveals a dark, dank hallway. Sherlock’s heart sinks in his chest. The dark was what he’d been most afraid of as a child, all that unknown existence, shrouded away, unable to be seen and therefore unable to be examined, understood, and conquered.

It wasn’t a fear he had faced in a long while, living in the same flat for years upon years, and knowing the streets of London like the back of his hand had left Sherlock essentially immune to this fear. But now, in a strange house made of candy, nearly engaging in the forced vore of a living gummy bear, the detective was shaken, and that childish fear had taken root in his head once more. The music turns louder, and he begins humming along with it more loudly, his mind turning fuzzy.

Then a light illuminates the small bit of hallway outside the door. Sherlock hurriedly scrambles forward and presses his face against the sweet, clear sugar. His eyes widen at what they see.

Sitting on an intricately detailed silver tray, is a plate, piled high with Turkish Delight.

Sherlock gives a small gasp, and feels his mouth water. Turkish Delight was the first sweet he had ever had as a child, his mother imposing a strict diet on him after Mycroft's weight problems set in, and it wasn’t until Sherlock was six years old, running home in his little white shorts and light blue shirt, completely convinced he was sailor like his grandfather had been, that he had been handed a small, pink square of pure sugary goodness.

Sherlock pushes open the door lightly, the loud, now-overly happy music following him into the hallway. In almost a daze, the great detective puts on an innocent, childish smile and reaches for the tray.

He picks up one single treat with his long, thin fingers and brings it towards his mouth.


	4. An Expected Turn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is where is gets weird - Warnings again for off-screen popping

The music seems to be getting louder as John walks through the dim hallway. His eyes have adjusted, but there's little to see. There's a door up ahead, though, so John walks carefully towards it, gun still poised at the ready. It seems forever away, as if all his walking isn't bringing it any closer. Frustrated, he breaks into a jog. Then finally, when the doctor is panting and gasping, he reaches the door. John peers in through the glass window and sees another sugary colorful room. And there's someone in there.

He pushes against the door but it doesn't seem to shift.  He tries pulling. No avail. John taps on the glass.

"Oi! Sherlock? That you?"

It could be anyone but that coat is hard to misplace.

 

*****

 

"J-John?" Sherlock murmurs, his brain still fuzzed over, Turkish Delight still in his fingers.

The music turns loud enough to hurt his ears, and his fingers drop the delight into his open mouth. The detective coughs and sputters a bit, but then the flavor of the treat explodes in his mouth. Pure joy and love and wonder all rush through his body, and he lets out a groan, his knees weakening with pleasure.

He reaches for another piece of Turkish Delight, but shakes his head, the music going a bit quieter, and straightens up. No eating on cases, that’s the rule. Food slows your thinking, Sherlock, it’s not worth your time.

The small part of him whines, but the detective’s will stands firm. One moment of weakness won’t – Sherlock falls to his knees in pain, his stomach feeling as if he has never eaten anything in his life. The tray is replaced with a small table, on top of it perches a plate of cinnamon buns. Sherlock quickly snatches one, shoving it into his mouth without thinking, not even finishing chewing before he stuffs in a second, a third.

“Sherlock, Sherlock, are you okay?” John wraps hard at the door again. Thank God he’s okay, and hungry? Something… something’s off. He pushes into the door again and this time it lets him in. He stumbles but catches himself, watching in some sort of horrific fascination as Sherlock keeps eating.

By the fifth cinnamon bun, Sherlock feels nauseous, and by the seventh he’s in pain. He never eats this much, hasn’t in his entire life, his trim stomach bloated to a hard dome under his tight shirt. Another tape begins to play over the intercom.

_"Th-this is Mickey with my fifth tape, we-we’ve all gotten separated. This house, there’s… something wrong with it. It’s all...candy. All food. I can’t find anyon-wait. What was that? C-Cindy! Cindy is that you!"_ There’s a groan and the sound something being crammed into a mouth, a muffled, wet sort of choking _"C-Cindy are oka-oh jesus what the fuck?!" 'They’re my f-friends Mick, they just wanna...wanna be *hiccup* part of me!' "It’s Cindy she’s… oh god h-her stomach! Sh-she looks nine months pregnant with triplets! Are those gummy bears?!_ _Wait! No! Get away from her!"_ There’s a small tearing sound and then a hiss, followed by an agonized scream from the girl and a terrified scream from Mick

The tape clicks off

                                                                                   *******

 

In the control room, vivid blue, uncaring eyes stare at a seething Moriarty

"JOHN’S supposed to be the pig not SHERLOCK! YOUVE RUINED EVERYTHING!" He slams his fists on the table repeatedly.

"Everything’s fine." A voice soothes, the eyes on the wall passive and cold, "Hunger means different things to different people"

 

                                                                                ******

The detective tries to vomit, but something in his throat won’t let him. Sherlock’s eyes widen in fear as he can’t stop himself from shoving in his tenth cinnamon bun

"J-John!"  he cries, mouth full of sweet, fatty sugar.

John’s initial relief at seeing the detective has long worn off. The tape only confirms what he’d feared. Oh God, no.

Sherlock swallows what’s in his mouth and groans, clutching his overfilled stomach with both hands. He pouts, tears in his eyes, "J-Jawwn. Tummy huurts" the detective whines, before shaking head aggressively and gritting his teeth.

John attempts to tamp down his own panic, even as Sherlock struggles again. "Come on, focus on me. Moriarty's got us. We've got to get out of this mad house, yeah?"

John keeps his gaze steady and confident even as his heart pounds. There's another scuttle of bug feet nearby.

The table recedes slowly into the floor. Sherlock groans again.

"John what is? This can’t be real,” he says, prodding a finger into his firm, taut gut and letting out a hiss when it hurts. "This doesn’t make any sense." He moves his hands from his stomach to the sides of his head. He tries to take deep breaths, but simply ends up panting, his overfilled stomach making it difficult to breathe.

The detective shakes his head again then manages to speak. "Ok, ok. We we’re kidnapped by Moriarty, made to find one another...and we're in a candy house where we know at least one person has eaten until they’ve exploded." The panic starts to rise again, but I tamp it down.

"Sherlock," John says firmly, pocketing his gun and reaching out to grab Sherlock’s wrists to keep the man from eating himself to death. "Sherlock, look at me, listen. You can stop. You're always so in control. 'Not hungry' that's you."

 

He’s not hungry, he’s not hungry, he’s not hungry.

Sherlock whimpers pathetically and bites at his knuckle.  He was not hungry...

He is starving.

 

Sherlock’s lower lips quivers and he shakes his head again, "We've got to g-get out of here." He swallows, looking longingly at all the treats around him

"Look for bre-" the detective lets out a monstrous burp, "breadcrumbs on the floor."

 

                                                                               

*****

 

Moriarty's eyes go wide in the control room "What did you…" He smiles.

"Oh, that precious little prince," he says wickedly. "I apologize, this still might be fun."

A small plate of doughnuts appears on the table beside him. He absentmindedly reaches for one.


	5. The Library

"That's it, nice to have you back," John says, managing a small smile. His eyes drift to Sherlock’s engorged belly, the curve oddly mesmerizing. Sherlock Holmes can look human after all.

"Come on," he repeats, grabbing the detective’s shoulder bracingly and tugging him up to stand. With a moment of thought, John takes one of the man’s hands to pull him along.

"Let's see if we can't find any more breadcrumbs. And Sherlock, for the love of God, don't eat anything else." With that, John leads Sherlock off a different corridor, eyes trained on the ground. The scuttle follows. The army doctor thinks about stopping to take it out, but perhaps he can use it if Sherlock recedes back under the house's spell.

John’s hand is rough, but warm, and Sherlock finds himself smiling shyly as he’s tugged along, giving small burps and hiccups as the detective’s  stomach digests his "meal."

At the end of the corridor rests another skeleton. "Human, female, 25 years of age" Sherlock says with a hiccup, "I...believe we've found 'Cindy.' " he finishes coldly, before his lip quivers a little, and he murmurs in a much smaller voice, "She just wanted to be their friend...she didn’t know." Sherlock sniffles, but  John’s hand squeezes the detective’s hand and he’s  back to himself.

The scuttle of feet is joined by another pair and Sherlock panics, pulling the two of them through the closest door, slamming it behind them, his heart pounding. They’re in some sort of library, Sherlock moves toward the bookshelf, a delicious looking red velvet cake, and he can’t help but take a finger-full of frosting as he opens a book.

"Oi,"  John dashes after the detective as he goes for one of the cakey books.

"None of that," the doctor admonishes, smacking Sherlock’s  frosting-coated hand and then looking at the book.

It’s full of just... names. Hundreds of them followed by... weights.

The frosting flies off Sherlock’s hand and he blushes, putting the book back, but still wondering what the dozens of others are filled with.

John notices another tape and picks it up. It should fit into the one John got off the army bloke. They must have been attacked, to just leave it here.

"Sherlock, stay beside me, do not touch anything. And be on guard," the ex army doctor directs, looking around for a source of danger. He rewinds the tape and presses play again.  


A stern, but clearly nervous voice comes out.

_“Th-this Chief Communications Officer Tommy Gallaway of the Second Irish Commissionary Battalion. My unit and I entered what we assumed was a small cottage after our Jeep broke down here in the countryside. Upon entrance the...the door behind us vanished. This place is...it looked like fucking_ _Candyland where we first walked in. Then this creepy music started playing, and Private Mendoza squealed like a little kid and took off._

_Officer Daniels said he was starving after biting off a small portion of the house, and...and just recently I heard a sickening pop over my radio. The rest of the team and I were assaulted by...I’m not even sure hat to call them. Roaches on fucking sn’tds. We blasted them as best we could but...oh god the Lieutenant._

_They fucking tore him apart. He I said he’d joined the service for danger but...no. He never wanted this. After that we were all separated._

_Patterson and I ran in the same direction, but he...he tripped and I thought I saw...I thought I saw a swarm of...chocolate rabbits carry him off._

_I’m in some sort of library now. It’s as if the house knows I love stories, that it wants me to know things. I picked up one of the books and...it was just names. All of them are, names and stats. Times of death, ages, normal medical things but then there’s...weight and amount of food eaten._

_I swear to you ‘weight’ might not be strange but... I know Daniel’s weight. He’s 170 pounds of just muscle and bone. The... the books is listing him at 300... and that number is rising. I’ve got to go...I hear more movement in the hall, it isn’t safe here. I’ll try and... leave as much behind as I can, for any other poor bastard that gets stuck in here_ ”

The tape clicks off

John gives the tape player a bit of a nod, as if to salute the man who met his fate before them. He looks at the large book before them and swallows. There's a new name, the ink shining against the more faded names above it: Sherlock Holmes. The weight category is smudged, but getting clearer. The doctor purses his lips and looks up at the detective again.

"Feeling okay?" he asks. The man’s bloating seems to have gone down, but Sherlock still looks... well it looks like some of it's sticking around.

Sherlock knits his eyebrows together in annoyance "I’m fine John, obviously." His stomach growls loudly, and he lays a hand on it. The detective’s eyes widen in horror. It feels....soft.

"We need to keep moving," John decides, hearing something rustling at the back of the room again. He holds up his gun, ready. He sees movement, but doesn't fire yet. But do they go in... or back to the hall? Bread crumbs... bread crumbs. Something rustles again and John grabs Sherlock’s wrist, tugging the detective behind a bookcase.

While John had been focusing on the roach, Sherlock had pulled up his tight, tucked in shirt, leaning his head  forward to take a mouthful of the red velvet bookcase.

 

The detective’s torso is still firm and his stomach is still taut... at the top. But the man’s lower belly is soft, and in this kneeling position, Sherlock can feel his usually bony bottom squish softly against his heels, his thickening thigh pressing together

Sherlock swallows what’s in his mouth and takes another bite, then swallows that, actually seeing his ribs vanish slightly under a layer of fat.

He licks the frosting from his lips.

This isn’t...this can’t be.

He doesn’t look fat, just... healthy. Sherlock needed to put on a little weight anyway.

The cockroach scuttles past and stops. As soon as it faces them, John fires right into its ugly face.

 "Okay, let’s move on,” John murmurs.

Sherlock lowers his shirt and sucks in his lower belly, the small pooch turning concave once again.

"Lead the way" the detective says, his confident Sherlock tone clearly a mask.

John glances back at Sherlock, brow slightly furrowed, but no time. He grabs Sherlock’s wrist again, noting that it feels oddly thicker, actual flesh and skin sliding over the bone. But no time. They head for the back of the library. There's another door. And more scuttling. The doctor shoves Sherlock through the door and turns, firing two rounds quickly into the roaches following them.

The door shuts between the two of them and locks with a loud click. The childish music blasts again, loudly, and Sherlock feels his brain go fuzzy.

 

*****

 

In the control room Moriarty laughs, unaware of the small pot belly forming on his normally thin middle.

 

 


	6. Chocolate Bunnies

“J-john!” the detective cries out in his ‘little Sherlock’ voice, “Jawn!”

He swallows nervously and glances around the room. There’s just the one door, the locked one, and he knows it’s not sound proof because John turns at his screams .

 

"Fuck!" the soldier shouts, furious with himself. That was a mistake. Several more sets of antenna rear up and scuttle towards him. John takes aim carefully and fires. He doesn't have many bullets to waste. He backs into the door, slamming his shoulder, damnit always the bad one, into it.

 

In the corner of Sherlock’s new room, there is a small hole, and through it hop about half a dozen, toddler-sized chocolate bunnies. Sherlock doesn’t think to try to knock through the door, or to try and fight them. He does what any six-year-old would do when they’re scared.

He cries.

Tears run down Sherlock’s face and he curls up into a small ball on the floor, remembering on the tapes what the scary bunnies did to the nice, army man, or what the gummy bears did to Cindy. He feels two of the bunnies pull out and then sit on his legs, another two hold Sherlock’s arms, while one pries open his mouth and sticks its head inside.  
Sherlock tries to breathe through his nose but another plugs it, and the detective chews and swallows desperately so he doesn’t suffocate, feeling his stomach round out in fullness. The first rabbit goes down, and Sherlock chokes and gasps as they all giggle and poke at his overfilled belly. Then a second one starts to pry Sherlock’s mouth open.

The rational part of the detective’s brain knows he can swallow this one and possibly survive, but any more and he’ll... pop.

 

"Sherlock! Just hang on!" John can hear whimpering. He needs to get to Sherlock. Now. 

A cockroach leaps at him and the doctor snarls and slams his pistol into its face. The others click and close in. John slams his shoulder furiously into the door again, fires two shots at two cockroaches that jump at him, then whirls around, panting. “Sherlock!”

 

Sherlock cries harder, sniffling and weeping, and the rest of the bunnies make mocking noises and giggle. The chocolate bunny opens his mouth and sticks its head inside. 

“J-Jawn,” Sherlock whimpers around it, the fullness in the man’s belly rapidly becoming painful.

 

"Sherlock! Away from the handle!" John bellows, not even sure the detective can hear him. He takes aim and shoots the candy knob and bolt which shatter. A set of razor sharp pincers suddenly find their mark in John’s wounded shoulder. He cries out as it bites the scar tissue, nibbling quickly through the shirt. The ex army doctor then snarls and bashes into the door again, squashing the bug in the process. 

He nearly falls over Sherlock as the door gives way, crushing one of the chocolate bunnies. Then John sees Sherlock struggling with the one in his mouth. He grabs at the remaining chocolate and tosses it aside. He grabs the detective’s face in his hands. "Sherlock, are you okay? We have to move." John looks down. Oh God, his stomach.

 

The bunnies had pulled up Sherlock’s shirt to further tease and taunt his size, leaving his middle exposed while John pulled out the third one, the one that definitely would have burst the detective’s belly. His gut is bloated beyond belief, red and splotchy near the belly button. The music isn’t playing in the room anymore but it’s still playing in Sherlock’s head. He feels like he’s going to explode, and tears stream down Sherlock’s face as he’s unable to find that rational part of his brain through a haze of pain and fullness.

"O-ow! Jawn, oww!" he groans, "Make it stop! Plea-please make it stop!" Sherlock tries to throw up again, but nothing comes out, some part of the magic of the house keeping food in the detective’s massively overfilled tummy.

 

"Shh, it's okay. I won't let them hurt you," John murmurs, eyes now back in line with Sherlock’s. "I've got you. Just try to relax, okay."  
The doctor doesn't know what to do for his ailing friend. None of this makes any sense to a rational medical mind. But John cares for Sherlock and he needs John’s care. So he'll try. John fires a round at the remaining chocolate bunnies, chattering a few paces off, which scatter at the noise.

"Here," John murmurs, moving his hands carefully down to the man’s gut. It's hard to believe it belongs to Sherlock Holmes. The matchstick man in a suit he follows around London from day to day. He tries to soothe the detective, pressing warm calloused palms at hard spots. He knows Sherlock can burp, they can at least get the extra gas out, try to relieve the pressure. John reaches down to undo Sherlock’s belt and trousers as well, then goes back to rubbing. The doctor needs Sherlock mobile. They need to keep moving.

 

Sherlock can’t stop himself from letting out a moan when John touches his gut, followed by several loud burps and hiccups. The redness gradually eases out of the detective’s stomach under the doctor’s hands, and Sherlock whimpers as John undoes his pants, giving his gut more room.

"Sherlock, just stay with me okay,” says John, “Think about where we are. We need to stop this. Get out of here. Yeah? It's some fucked up shit of Moriarty's."

As John rubs he can almost feel the pressure go down, belly softening, and starting to ripple lightly under his hands. Sherlock is relieved when it seems to be helping. It doesn't seem to be going away though. The detective swallows in shock as his own hands sink into soft fat. Oh God...

 

"S-stop? Don’t stop." Sherlock smiles dreamily, but the music cuts out for some reason and he snaps back to reality. The man blushes, totally unaware of the weight he’s gained.

"H-help me up, John, then lead the way."

 

John notices that Sherlock has snapped back to normal and he pulls his hands from the man’s belly quickly. He helps haul Sherlock to his feet, feeling the detective’s new belly brush against his own toned one. The two of them are suddenly quite close. John steps back.

"O-okay, yeah, let's go. I'll cover us from behind. Stay close,” says the doctor.

 

*****

In the control room, a lone button bursts off the too-tight pants of James Moriarty, startling the grey eyes watching into focusing on him rather than the doctor and the detective on screen. Moriarty doesn’t notice, instead cackling wickedly  
"Oh God! Just look at him! Sherlock Holmes with a pot belly!" He laughs again, biting into another brownie.

 

*****

Sherlock takes John’s hand as they continue out into another hallway, following the breadcrumbs. The detective feels like he’s shaking… but he’s not nervous. No, not shaking... bouncing, especially in his bu-

Sherlock’s eyes go wide and John is jolted to a stop. The detective moves his free hand to his belly, where he horrifiedly pinches a small handful of potbelly, then to his ass, where Sherlock can more than easily can grab handfuls from both cheeks.

Sherlock looks to John with tears in his eyes "J-John...what’s happening?"

Then there’s more clicking behind the two of them, coming nearer, and Sherlock points to an open door near the end of the hall, it looks like... like a spa room.


	7. The Spa

"Just keep moving, Sherlock. You're alright," John says, giving the detective’s hand a squeeze. He fires a single round behind them as something wanders a bit too close. The gun clicks. Shit!

John follows Sherlock into the next room and slams the door shut, before looking around. A spa wasn't usually where one found bullets, but then this made place didn't seem to run by the rules of  usual rooms.

"Best be careful, yeah?" John says, eyeing the place dubiously. "Don't touch anything. Let's just see if there's another door."

 

The spa is...well it looks like Willy Wonka's chocolate factory, there's two small jets of warm, molten chocolate spilling into a full, Olympic sized swimming pool of gooey, fudgy goodness

A skeleton sits languidly in one of the chocolate Jacuzzis, there's an army pack next to it.

As John approaches it to search for bullets the music starts to play again, and Sherlock is having smaller and small moments of lucidity regarding "big" and "little" Sherlock. Without thinking, the detective latches his mouth around one of the jets and swallows continuously, his belly steady rounding out until, whimpering around the funnel's mouth, Sherlock regains the sense to pull off of it, gasping, and runs back over to John, stomach round and overfilled yet again.

 

"Oh for God's sake," John breathes, but he knows the man can't help it, so he just reaches over to pull Sherlock close, keep him out of trouble.

"No more sweets today," the doctor says sternly, looking Sherlock right in the eye. Maybe that can communicate with whatever the spell's done to him. John kneels, still keeping a close watch on the detective, and takes the tape player from the skeleton's fingers. Then he hits play.

 

" _Th-this is...oh Jesus fucking Christ...this is Chief Communications Officer Tommy Gallaway of the Second Irish Commissionary Battalion. I’ve...I’ve found Officer Daniels. He's...Jesus Christ he's in a hot tub full of...what I can only assume is chocolate and...just...he’s fucking huge._

_He's...taking up nearly the entire jacuzzi. And...something is feeding him. I don’t know what it is exactly it...it looks human-shaped but...but those eyes. Those eyes, they’re like...like cold, dead steel._

_Officer Daniels has...commented on his inability to walk and...whatever it is just...it just squealed with glee and fed him faster._

_His stomach is just...how can anyone be that big and - wait! Wait stop he can’t take anymo-"_

The tape cuts out

"Okay. We are sure as hell getting out of here," John decides, taking Sherlock’s hand and standing, pulling the detective with him. Jesus, he’s getting heavy. There's a giggle, a very human giggle, from somewhere nearby. What a time to run out of bullets.

John tugs Sherlock with him, intending to run down a small narrow hall that looks as though it has a door at the end.

But suddenly there's a very beautiful woman standing before them, barring the way.

"Leaving so soon?" she coos, batting long eyelashes that are an unnatural teal color. Large fishy lips pout. "But you're both so thin... you can't possibly leave now."

"Fuck off," John snarls, raising his gun. She doesn't have to know it's empty. Her grey eyes suddenly seem to glow yellow, pupils narrowing into slits, but then they are slate gray again and she slinks past the ex-army doctor to Sherlock instead, tips the man’s chin to her on long claw-like fingers.

"You're not ready to leave me, are you baby? I know a man with an appetite when I see one," she purrs, pressing a long lithe body up against the detective’s rotund one.

"He's not yours," John growls, staring daggers at the woman-this thing, "Sherlock, come on."

Before Sherlock can do or say anything her mouth is on his, her hands unbuttoning the shirt at the detective’s waist, probing  his soft tummy.

"Well, well,”she says, licking her lips, "What have we here?" She smiles, her mouth full of pointed teeth

"Chubbing up are we? That’s a good boy," she smiles again, "But it seems you gain more _here_ ,"  she says more forcefully, one sharp hand grabbing Sherlock’s ass hard enough to bruise, the other pushing him backward into the pool, where two other sirens rise up, grab him by the arms, and move Sherlock towards the chocolate faucet.

"Sherlock!" John bellows as the man is wrenched from his grasp, he tries to go after the detective, but is stopped.

Sherlock struggles but it’s of no use, and once again his nose is pinned, so he is forced to open his mouth to the faucet.

"You hold him, girls" shouts the siren at the two, slightly smaller ones, "I do love feeding up soldiers, though.” She lunges towards John

The siren shrieks as John dodges her mouth, reaching back and slapping her with the butt of his gun instead. She screams in rage and pain, and her minions look momentarily confused, chittering at each other, looking afraid.

"Let. Him. Go!" John growls. But then there are claws in his leg as the leader scrabbles at him from the floor. Without even thinking the soldier pulls back again and clubs her brutally over the head, not just once but twice, his face going steely and blank. She doesn't move. Her sisters have withdrawn into their chocolatey home.

"He's mine," John growls, "Not yours. Clear off!" He shakes the gun and they squeal and dive. The doctor then pulls Sherlock back away from the basin.

"You okay?" he pants, still feeling rage burn through him, "Let's go. Don't you fucking eat another bite. Got it?"

His voice is hard and hardly the doctor’s own. John shakes his head, feeling his pulse pounding in his ears. "We-we need to get out," John repeats.

Sherlock’s  stomach is aching, and he moves to say that, but a fear rises up in the detective and he closes his mouth. He gives his head another shake, just trying to get back in the normal, rational brain, but it’s... very hard.

The detective’s stomach gurgles again, digesting all the calories he’s just consumed, and Sherlock lets out a small belch. His coat was blown off when the siren threw him, and he bends down to pick it up.

There’s a tear, and a sudden coldness around his now quite fat ass.

"John I don’t think I’ve ever been less ok.” Sherlock blushes furiously, tears pooling in his eyes, and part of the detective’s ‘small’ mind holds out his hand for his doctor to take.

"You're-you're fine," John says, swallowing, "We'll get out of this... and er. Get you some new trousers."

He tries to smile, tries to get Sherlock to buck up. He takes the detective’s hand.

"Come on, Sherlock. I think it's this way. We've got to be getting close now." John’s foot nudges a small box. More bullets. Okay.

Somehow that both makes John feel bolder and terrifies him. He leads Sherlock down the narrow hallway, going carefully because he has a suspicion that it's going to be a bit of a tight squeeze for the detective’s new bulk. John pushes open the door at the end and immediately throws an arm up in front of his face.


	8. The Tiger

It's almost terrifyingly bright. Spots dance in front of John’s eyes and he can't see a thing. The soldier crouches down, hoping his eyes will adjust soon, but the spots seem to linger.

 

                                                            *****

 

Moriarty's chair creaks as he reaches his arm out for the rest of his chocolate milk shake.

 

"Bored," He proclaims with a sip, "Don't you have something else to throw at them? Something that'll kill them faster? I wasn't planning to spend all day here you know. Ooh, I know!" Jim leans forward with a grunt to turn on the intercom.

 

"Sherly's looking sort of girly! Who knows? Johnny might actually want to fuck you now that you have those hips!" He giggled then added, "But then, Sherls, you're getting really fat aren't you? So maybe not. Fattylock. I think that should be your new name!" He guffaws and sits back, taking the fresh milk shake that's appeared and slurping it down. The chair groans softly.

 

The glowing eyes stare at him passively, then look back to the screen.

 

                                                            *****

 

The lights dim enough that John can see again. It looks like- he blinks. A hospital tent. Rows and rows of beds made up of marshmallow and candy cane. There are bodies in each one.

 

John doesn't want to mention Moriarty's taunting, he can’t, so he simply settles on: "I don't think we should wake them."

 

 

Sherlock heard the childish music behind Moriarty's teasing, and he slipped into that headspace for his little rant. The detective slips a hand to his gut. It’s much more than just a pot belly now, he’s...f-…-f...fat. It wobbles lightly underneath Sherlock’s hands, straining the buttons on his shirt.

 

He slides on down to his hips. Moriarty's right. Round, smooth... girly. And his butt is...well.

 

 

Tears roll down Sherlock’s face as each remarks stabs into the detective’s heart, but he’s worried John’ll get mad again, so he looks down and tries to sob as quietly as he can.

 

He keeps a tight hold on John’s hand, bringing up his other sleeved arm to his face, trying to cover it so John won’t see Sherlock Holmes like this - crying and... fat.

 

 

There's no response from Sherlock, just sniffles, so John turns back and catches the detective hiding in his sleeve. The doctor’s heart breaks a little, seeing that those words somehow got to Sherlock.

 

"Sherlock," he says gently, softly, as to not disturb the room, but also to try to coax the detective out of hiding. "Don't let him get to you. It's not true. He's just saying that to upset you. You're fine. Really. We'll get you out of here and back to normal. Promise. Look at me. Please?"

 

John squeezes Sherlock’s hand warmly, comfortingly. "I..." his voice trails off. He still can't say it. "I _care_ about you. No matter what."

 

 

Sherlock tries and shakes his head, tries to just get a hold of himself but he can’t. He  can’t keep crying, he can’t keep eating, he can’t let John _see_ him like this!

 

Sherlock tears his hand away and runs off into the maze of beds, not focused on going anywhere, just focused on getting away from John.

 

A voice comes over the intercom again.

 

"Boooo! Cry baby! Just fuck already! Jesus! Just don’t think about being on top Fattylock, you’ll probably crush him!" There’s a cruel cackle.

 

                                                            *****

 

Moriarty leans his arms back to stretch them above his head, his chair creaking noisily. The eyes in the wall focus in as every button on his white, buttoned, shirt goes flying without the master criminal even noticing.

 

Moriarty settles back down, fat gut spilling out over his thick thighs, and  mindlessly grabs a chocolate chip cookie from a plate that wasn’t there before he stretched. "Moran!" he shouts.

 

                                                            *****

 

 

"Sher!-Sherlock," John hisses, feeling his heart fold in half as the detective runs off. Oh bloody Hell. Suddenly, every single body in the beds has jolted into an upright position and they're screaming. None of them have faces, just a wall of white flesh but they’re screaming. The doctor falls to his knees, hands clapped over his ears as best as he can while still holding his gun. John suddenly realizes that all the patients, they're all looking to him, screaming at him to help them, save them. Why wouldn't he save them, they needed a doctor, they needed Dr. Watson and he failed them all.

 

"Shut up!" John shouts back with enough force to make himself hoarse. Sherlock. Sherlock is important. He's alive. Oh God, why do half of them seem to sound like him?! John forces himself to his feet and takes off running between the beds, the way Sherlock had been going. Pale ghostly arms reach out for him, crying as John passes.

 

"Sherlock! Where in God's name are you?!"

 

 

The detective sits down next to a marshmallow tent and plants his hands to his hand, struggling to just get back to Sherlock, the rude, crass, asshole detective.

 

Then comes the screaming

 

The sound is overwhelming, and Sherlock is jolted back into that 'little' space, the music pulsing through him like blood in his veins.

 

The detective starts to full on sob now, "J-jawn! Jawn make them stop! Pl-please Jawn! A-anyone, anyone please!" He cries into his hands for a moment, but then feels a warm, calloused hand on his shoulder.

 

Sherlock looks up smiling, "Y-you found me! I knew you would, John, you always d-"

 

Then all blood drains out of the detective’s face.

 

Those are not the kind eyes of his John.

 

"Hello, little boy." The man sneers.

 

Sherlock screams.

 

 

John’s heart stops. That was definitely Sherlock, not the know-it-all detective, but some small frightened little thing that had been coaxed out from inside the man.

 

"Sherlock!" John pushes past the crowd of faceless patients, "Oh thank God I-"

 

"Well, well, Dr. Watson. What's the meaning of this?" a cold, gruff ,voice drawls, "Attention!" The room falls silent as the patients freeze, arms still outstretched, but now motionless as string-less marionettes.

 

John swallows. "Sherlock, just stay there. You're safe," he murmurs, eyes on the other man.

 

Colonel Moran clicks his tongue. "Safe? Oh, I doubt that very much, Watson. Just look at the state of your affairs." He nods at the tent, then his cold grey eyes fix back on the ex army doctor. "No one could be safe in your care or guidance, why, you've been heading in the wrong way. Haven't you noticed things have only been getting worse?"

 

John feels his heart hammer, but he shakes his head, squares his shoulders. "You're just another trick, Moran. You got locked up. Dishonorable discharge."

 

"And yet, here I am: living, breathing, in the flesh," growled the colonel, towering over John, old but strong still. "The boss sent me."

 

"Moriarty? Why would he send you-"

 

"How's it going fat arse? Don't you want more? A big gut like that, well. I'd wager you're still hungry," he said, turning back to Sherlock and tearing a chunk of candy floss bedspread off the nearest bed and holding it out to the detective.

 

"Don't!" John snarls, his weapon drawn, but Moran doesn't move.

 

 

"J-John I-"

 

"Quiet!" Moran snaps, and  Sherlock stops talking, but his mouth hangs open. He licks his lips at the offering of more food. It isn’t fair, it’s like offering a kilo to a crack addict.

 

Sherlock opens his mouth a little wider, a look of sheer horror in his eyes as he is unable to stop himself.

 

 

"Sherlock, you shut your mouth right now. Moran, I will kill you," John says, his voice low and calm, perfectly measured.

 

"For feeding your boyfriend? He's already a fat hog, what's a little candy floss going to do?" sneers Moran.

 

"He's not m-" and John stops himself, oddly alarmed at how fast that phrase just rolls off his tongue. He looks to Sherlock

 

"He's not a hog," John says again.

 

"Hm, then maybe love is blind after all," says Moran, his hand moves to draw his own pistol, he's too quick and now they’re at a standoff. His other hand still dangles the sweet cotton over Sherlock’s mouth.

 

"Go on, piggy. Eat a whole bed," Moran directs the detective.

 

"Sherlock," John says simply, weapon still trained on Moran.

 

"No closer, Watson."

 

The doctor ignores it and moves closer. A bullet buries itself in front of John’s left foot and he takes advantage of that split second to launch himself at Moran. The two army veterans crash to the floor. A few of the patients begin screaming again.

 

John grapples with Moran, he's larger than John, more sadistic, and goes right for where it hurts, twisting John’s bad arm and giving him a good punch to the gut. John does his best to throw him off, but he's heavy. John manages to elbow Moran in the throat and he chokes before his arm closes around John’s own and traps him in a head lock. John freezes as he squeezes and the doctor’s vision flickers. Moran shouts for the patients to fall silent again.

 

"Sh-Sherlock,” John warns.

 

"Eat a bed, piggy. Go on."

 

 

Sherlock sits, helpless and afraid, staring at the two of them.

 

"W-what will you do to John i-if I don’t?"

 

 

"Do you want to find out?" murmurs Moran, smiling and tightening his arm again. John forces himself not to choke, blinking as dark spots float over his eyes.

 

"S'erlock, mm fine!" he manages to grunt out before Moran bends John in a way that makes  him worry  that it might very well snap his neck. John pants, looking at Sherlock desperately. He needs the detective’s help, but he doesn't want him to have to eat again, it only seems to get worse every time. John doesn't dare moving in this new position though.

 

"Think you can _deduce_ what might happen, fat arse?" Moran drawls.

 

                                                            *****

 

"Oh he's gooood," says Moriarty conversationally, popping a few crisps into his mouth. His belly and hips are spilling out over the poor spindly chair he's sat himself in. "See? _That_ is how you torture people."

 

The blue eyes didn't even deign to roll. "Your Moran iz not immune, either you know," the soft low voice murmurs, "It's only a madder of time. Den you see what he's hungry for."

 

"Stuff it you old hag. I didn't hire you for your opinion."

                                                            *****

 

 

Seeing John in danger seems to shake Sherlock just a bit out of his 'little' headspace, but he keeps on the innocent mask. Only on, and  the pair of frightful eyes watching the screen next to the bloated criminal recognize what the detective is doing.

 

Ok- Facts. Sherlock’s weight is skyrocketing, there’s no stopping that now, and it appears the more often he eats the more quickly it’s converted into fat.

 

Colonel Moran appears to be... over 230 lbs of pure muscle, bare minimum. Sherlock’s not entirely sure of his own weight, but he knows he’s certainly big.

 

Also, eating sends Sherlock spiraling back into that small version of himself, so this plan might not work, but he just needs to focus - Save John. Save John.

 

Sherlock tears off a piece of the fluffy pink bed and stuffs it into his mouth, where it melts almost instantly into pure sugar.

 

Then he tears off another, then another, his belly steadily rounding out, and he makes sure not to hold back a loud, wet belch.

 

 

"N-n" Is all John manages to choke as Sherlock starts eating. He watches helplessly as the detective’s stomach fills and bloats yet again. John closes his eyes. God, he can't believe Sherlock is doing that on his account. He hates it. John should be protecting _him_. He feels Moran laugh, his grip loosening, yes, just a bit more you great bastard.

 

 

After a short while of stuffing himself silly, barely able to focus on the plan, that happy music echoing louder and louder in Sherlock’s brain, it happens.

 

The lowest button on Sherlock’s shirt flies off, hitting John square in the forehead.

 

Moriarty and Moran both throw their heads back and laugh, Moran's grip on John’s neck loosening for just long enough.

 

Sherlock uses the opportunity to launch himself forward, tackling the two army men to the ground, using his weight to knock them off balance.

 

The detective ends up knocking the wind out of both of them, and unluckily, Moran recovers first, stalking towards Sherlock as he struggles to crawl away on all fours, his stomach nauseous from so much sugar, his round arse wobbling, pale and smooth, in the open air.

 

The detective feels a hard stomp and Sherlock falls forward with a cry, no longer able to hold onto the rational, planning detective. Moran rolls Sherlock onto his side and plants a solid kick to Sherlock’s round, cuddly tummy.

 

Sherlock shrieks in pain, and by the second blow he’s sobbing again, his overfilled, now completely soft stomach not able to take this much rough pressure.

 

"J-John!" he cries desperately.

 

 

John’s head had hit the floor rather hard, he couldn’t breathe. When he does look up, Moran is kicking Sherlock mercilessly and the ex-army doctor feel that rage come boiling up again. He catches sight of his gun, lying perfectly safe on a table, bullets in their chambers, and grabs it.

 

"Moran!" John snarls, and he looks up. There's a moment of dawning fear and disbelief. Moran raises his weapon as well but isn't quick enough this time. John’s bullet hits him right between the eyes and he crumples.

 

"Sherlock," John is quickly at the man’s side again, feeling for any permanent damage. "It's okay, I've got you. You did it."

 

John gives his detective a small warm smile before the patients start screaming again. "Come on!" He manages to haul Sherlock up and they tumble through the door Moran had entered from.

 

                                                            *****

 

Moriarty is furious.

 

The blue eyes look oddly smug. "Your tiger craved a worthy hunter it seems."


	9. You've Got Me

Sherlock burps and groans as John hoists him up and they stumble into the next room, the door shutting behind , a few muffled screams still coming through.

 

It’s a hallway and, while there's a definite clicking and shuffling at the end of it, Sherlock just can’t move anymore. The detective pants breathlessly, sobbing very hard, stomach feeling like he has swallowed a dozen razor blades.

 

"J-Jawn! M-my tummy! Ow, ow, ow, ow, owie!" Sherlock grips and squeezes at it, desperately trying to stop the pain. "Help, J-jawn, pl-please"

 

 

"Hey, it's okay. Shh just stay quiet," John murmurs, trying not to alert whatever is in the room with the two of them. It sounds like more of those insects.

 

The doctor places his hands gently on Sherlock’s swollen middle, feeling the soft fat that's grown there over the tight round mound beneath. He massages and presses tenderly once again, trying to soothe the detective. It doesn't seem to be enough so John bends down to press his ear to it. He can hear it churning. Somehow, he ends up giving it a kiss. Like one would for a small scared child to make it all better.

 

John looks back up at Sherlock, trying to see if the man is still in pain. Christ, how did they manage to get into this mess.

 

"Better?" He whispers hopefully, his hands still wandering Sherlock’s soft sides and middle.

 

 

The hard wailing shifts to soft sobs, then quiet tears. Sherlock giggles a little when John gives his belly a kiss. He looks into John’s eyes, and there’s no remainder of detective there.

 

"Hug,” he demands, sniffling, tears still going down his face. Sherlock wraps his arms around the doctor, squeezing him into his soft, fat middle. The crying subsides as they just sit for a moment in silence, the clicking skittering away. Then Sherlock giggles softly in John’s ear.

 

"J-ohn,” he laughs, his fat gut wobbling, "I ate a whole bed."

 

 

 The ex-army doctor chuckles as well, tucking his head into Sherlock’s neck a minute to muffle his own laughter. Then he perches his chin on Sherlock’s  soft shoulder again, rocking them gently.

 

"Yeah, you did, Sherlock. God, how did that even fit?" he murmurs, just glad to have the man safe. At least for now. "You're amazing." John gives him a bit more of a squeeze. "Saved my life, too. Got us out of that scrap. You're bloody brilliant."

 

 

Sherlock blushes crimson, "Aw well uh...it was uh." He clears my throat and tries to make his voice sound gruff , "Obvious, John."

 

The swelling in Sherlock’s tummy starts to go down, his thighs thickening and ass rounding out further underneath him. The detective blinks back out of his submissive, fuzzy state. He blushes again, darker this time, and clears his throat.

 

"W-we should keep moving."

 

 

"Oh, er, yeah. Here, let me just... help you up." John lets his arms slide from Sherlock and backs up a few steps, then offers the detective both of his arms to heave the man to his feet. John checks his gun again and brings it out.

 

"It's too dark to see anything, but I'm guessing trying to follow Moran's tracks is as good a plan as any," he murmurs, clearing his throat as well and straightening now that Sherlock is back to his usual

 

"Really though. Well done." He might as well be honest if they’re going to die in here. John steps cautiously forward. There's still faint scuttling, but its owner seems small or far off.

 

 

"Yes, me stuffing my fat face with truly impressive. I deserve a medal for bravery,” Sherlock says in a biting whisper, but then tips backwards, falling right onto his incredibly soft bottom. His mouth falls open, not because it hurt but because...it didn’t.  Sherlock moves two hands to probe at his bottom and finds… a lot of it. An absurd amount of it. He blinks back tears and tries to get back up, fat gut turning to rolls as he leans forward. His lip quivers.

 

"Jesus Christ, I’m fucking disgusting."

 

The detective’s walk is most definitely more of a waddle now, and Sherlock embarrassedly reaches out for John’s hand to hold it again.

 

 

“Oi, don't knock the man that kept my neck from being broken," John replies tartly. He takes Sherlock’s hand and squints at the footprints.

 

 

Sherlock points to a door that has a trail of Moran’s footprints leading up to it, easy to follow the path of such a heavy man in such a soft brownie floor.

 

"I think we're almost out of here."

 

 

"Yeah, I think you're right." He hopes he’s right. The detective and the doctor follow the footprints, John leading and keeping his gun steady. There's a flicker of something colorful and he fires a round at it. It squeals and dashes off. A giant gummy bear? John doesn't give it much thought, just pushes on until they reach the door at the end of the long hall.

 

 

Sherlock pulls the door open and the two step into the next, bright room.

 

It’s... opulent.

 

The dining table stretches long down the middle of the room, overstuffed with every type of sweet imaginable. Pastries upon pies upon cakes. A giant, sugar-crystal shines above the table, illuminating the entire room in warm, welcoming light

 

Sherlock’s stomach gurgles and he bites his lip. He can’t stop himself from breaking off the lollipop doorknob from the door and licking it. The detective whimpers and moves towards the table, the music playing over the intercom softly.

 

In every chair except the seat at the head of the hall, in the two dozen seats around the massive table, sits a skeleton.

 

 

 "Sherlock," John says warningly, grabbing at the man’s wrist again, "Don't wander off. Let's just take it slow through here.” He does his best to tug the man with him as they walk past the table. There has to be another door here... somewhere...

 

 

Something small giggles and runs under the table.

 

 

"Jesus!" John mutters, shivering at the thing. Whatever it was. He has a strong urge to just fire a shot so that it stays hidden. He catches Sherlock’s gaze.

 

 

Sherlock’s eyes dart to it, his mind starting to go fuzzy. He wobbles after John as the doctor leads the way about the room. The giggle comes again, and as the two of them reach the head of the table, there’s another tape, this one from the documentary crew.

 

Sherlock eyes the chair at the head of table, watching it visibly expand and shift, matching a size that… a size that looks like it was made for him.

 

 

 

"Sherlock, stay here with me," John says firmly, hoping that he’ll somehow be able to guide the man. "Sherlock, do you have the other tape player still?" John takes it and picks up the new tape, pressing it in, rewinding and then playing it. John can't help but be curious about this place. Surely it couldn't be all Moriarty...

 

 

" _Thi-this is Mick,"_ the voice sobs, _"Of the Docudrama crew. I...I haven’t made a tape since Cindy because I...I thought I’d make them when I found the others. Well I found them. All of them. Mark and Todd and Tsu and,"_ the sobs continue, _"I’m looking at them now they’re...Jesus Christ they’re fucking huge and JJ he’s...Jesus Christ! He fucking popped right in front of me! There’s something...feeding them. It’s a little thing...or a couple of little things. It keeps running around their feet and passing things up to them for them to shove into their fat mouths. I’m-I’m hiding behind wall, there’s a panel in the room that if you it right, the door appears, I’m behind one of the false panels_

_Oh-oh god god no!_ "  There’s a sickening squelch, " _F-fuck this, fuck this I gotta_ " There’s a small huffing of breath and a hard thud, then the sound of a small cry as something holding a tray falls over.

" _Tsu! Tsu come on_!" Theres grunting, and a pop as something squeezes out of a chair, then a loud huffing sound, " _You’re ok, I got you, I go_ -" The tape cuts off.

 

 

Another giggle sounds from under the table. Sherlock gets down on his knees to see what it is, and a crème puff  is popped directly into the detective’s mouth, the music playing loud again, another puff, and Sherlock struggles to stand back up, whimpering, throwing out a hand to hit whatever just fed him, making contact with something that shrieks, followed by another two giggles from the other end of the table.

 

John shudders as the tape plays out, then look around for you in panic. "Sherlock, Sherlock, come on, this way," he pleads, taking the detective’s hand again and tugging him to his feet. He catches a glimpse of the little thing again, imp-like with pale glowing eyes and a sick mockery of a smile.

 

God in Heaven, does he want to shoot them. John chuckles at the thought. Oh, this is _fucked_. Everything about this house is so _fucked_.  John takes aim as another little creature peers out at them. They all deserve to die, killing those poor people, feeding them until they-

 

They would not do that to Sherlock. John fires, but the bullet hits a table leg instead and the creature gets away unharmed.

 

"C'mon you!" the soldier snarls, keeping Sherlock behind himself. "Just try!"

 

 

"Well if you insist" A small voice by Sherlock’s feet says, grabbing and taking a sharp bite out of his soft calf. The detective lets out a cry but manages to remain standing, kicking the monstrous thing off and stumbling after John.

 

"J-Jawn!" he whimpers, his tone scared, at least four of the creatures running out from under the table now.

 

 

 "Oi! Me! Not him!" John bellows, turning and pointing his gun at the creatures. He fires a bit haphazardly, hitting only one in the leg. He manages to get one in the head as it darts towards them, then the gun clicks, empty, and the soldier brandishes the butt of it instead, giving into the rage that's pounding through him.

 

"You're not taking Sherlock, you bastards! Never!"

 

 

"John!" Sherlock shouts, his tone still scared, but not of the creatures, of his doctor. The music is still pounding in the detective’s head, but he’s overcoming it, his will strong now that he has something to really think for – John.

 

Ok – facts:

 

John is addicted to danger

 

The first few rooms Sherlock was in held no danger, only sweets and a desire for fun.

 

The monsters appeared because of John's addiction, not necessarily Sherlock’s own - because he would eat himself to death with or without them.

 

Also:

 

There is a panel in this room, one that opens a door. Sherlock scans the room and finds it almost immediately. He snaps out of his mind palace, sugar and saccharine happiness still pumping through him. He looks at John, seeing only animalistic rage as the soldier beats a bunch of monstrous imps.

 

"John! John!" the detective calls, grabbing the man’s arms to stop him, three of the imps are dead, the last two desperately trying to get away.

 

"John!" Sherlock shouts again, spinning the ex-army doctor towards him, wrapping soft arms around John and just letting him sink into his soft gut.

 

 

John is still thrumming with energy, even as Sherlock pulls him away from his fight. He grumbles and growls slightly at that, then realizes who it is. Sherlock. Yeah. Sherlock's safe.

 

 

 

"It’s alright, I’m alright." Sherlock tilts John’s chin up to look into his eyes, they’re 100 percent detective, even though Sherlock can barely hear himself speak over the music.

 

"The war is over John, I’m right here. You've got me. I’m safe."

 

He quietly pets the back of the man’s sandy-blonde hair, making him nestle into his soft shoulder.

 

"You saved me."

 

 

John takes a deep long breath, finding himself soothed by the detective’s softness and size.

 

"Yeah. Good," he manages, blinking and looking up at Sherlock.

 

 "We need to find Moriarty." John says it as if he’s just remembered that they need to pick up some shopping on the way home. He looks around the room, but the imps are gone, likely crawled off somewhere to nurse their wounds. The doctor realizes he is still in Sherlock’s arms, pressed up against him.

 

"Er..." John wets his lips slightly, "Yeah, I've got you... good. That's good." He steps away just a bit. "Let's get out of here, yeah?"

 

Sherlock waddles over to the wall behind the throne-fit-for-his-fat-ass and gives it sharp whack with his wide hip, and a panel flies open, revealing a hallway illuminated by soft light at the end.  The sounds of an angrily squeaking chair and a "Wait, where are they?!" are heard, along with a soft chuckle from a female voice.

 

Sherlock holds out his hand to John.

 

"Yeah, you’ve got me." The detective smiles, "Lead the way?"

 

 

"Of course," John says, nodding and doing so. He takes Sherlock’s hand again. Somehow, John doesn't think he'll be able to stop doing that once this is over. Or even want to. But first: Moriarty.


	10. Full

The detective and the doctor wander along the hall and soon they can clearly hear Moriarty's ranting and railing. There's a loud crunch and a surprised yelp as they push open the door at the end. The room is dimly lit, monitors everywhere emitting the only light. A pair of blue glowing eyes blink at the newcomers, then vanish. John thinks he might even have imagined them.

 

But quite suddenly eyes that may or may not be there are driven completely from his mind. John’s jaw actually drops. If that's - that can't be Jim Moriarty in his trim suits. No. Never.

 

This man is frankly enormous, mountainous, the remainders of his shirt stretched taught over his shoulders, a great pale belly spilling out under a very round face to meet swollen hips that look ready to tear the fine material straight in two.

 

Moriarty glowers at them both with rage, he's clearly attempting to stand, but doesn't seem able to. His thighs trapped and immobilized in trousers too small, a heavy arse making it nigh impossible for him to move anywhere.

 

"What the HELL do you mean coming here!? Why doesn't anyone stick to the SCRIPT!?" he yowls. John just keeps staring, still holding Sherlock’s hand.

 

 

Sherlock  can’t help it - he laughs.

 

The detective’s  mind is clear, the music  is gone, and he laughs so hard his round, soft tummy is shaking and a bouncing on his thighs, his wide hips, pressed against  John’s, wobbling and jiggling against him.

 

Sherlock looks at the infamous James Moriarty, at his round, bulbous gut spilling almost to his knees - resting on fat, thick, flabby thighs. His ass, two near-yoga balls of pale flesh, rippling and shaking as he attempts to rolls forward far enough to get off of it, cylindrical, sausage-like arms swinging about him wildly as he throws a slew of curses at not just his usual nemeses, but at that "fucking bitch" who "did this to him."

 

Sherlock’s laughter stops when he sees a small table with two tapes on it. He puts one into his recorder and presses play, then chooses the second.

 

" _This is...this is Mickey. Tsu and I we're... we got out. She let us out, whatever she was. I think we...we all came in here wanting something. I wanted a great story, we... we all did. And that’s what we got... exactly what we asked for. Tsu is... Jesus he’s a fucking blimp. I don’t… I don’t know what we're going to tell people but... we're out_."

 

" _This is Commanding Officer... eh fuck it. I made it. W-we made it. I found the private that squealed and ran off like a little kid. He's... well he’s certainly rounder, and he"_ there’s a small laugh _, "N-no! Andrew get off! He refuses to stop hugging me, but we made it. I think...I think the house only eats until it’s full. It’s like an animal in that way. It’s not... evil. It’s a spider web, feeding off every version of human gluttony. But when it’s full... it stops. Don’t know how this is going to be explained to command but... hey. We're alive._ "

 

Sherlock looks at John, then goes pale - pointing to a pair of bright blue eyes that open in the wall. They flutter closed, and where they were, a door swings open, the most intricately decorated one yet. The two survivors step towards it.

 

The detective looks at John again and laughs.  "John, this has been... I nearly popped... I ate a bed... I’m fat and... and I think that-"

 

There’s a loud "Booooo!" behind them as Moriarty continues to shake and wobble angrily against the floor.

 

Sherlock looks right into his doctor’s eyes, "I think that… I love you, John Watson."

 

 

 John chuckles at that. Okay, it's a bit of a hysterical giggle actually. He finds himself relieved and giddy all at once.  "I-er, Oh, fuck it come here.”

 

He smiles, reaching up and pulling the detective down to his mouth and kisses him hard.

 

Then he clears his throat and answers, "I love you too. Now lets get out of here. We need to find you some new trousers I think."

 

 

"Something for me to grow into?" Sherlock jokes, moving the doctor’s hand to rest on his opposite hip, and slipping his own hand down to rest on John’s.

 

 

John feels his mouth go oddly dry at that, his fingers pressing into Sherlock’s softened flesh as they squeeze out of the door and onto a green hillside.

 

 "Er, whatever you want, really. I-I love you whatever size you come in. But this is... this is nice. Just like this," John babbles, feeling his cheeks color as he presses into Sherlock’s side. Sherlock’s big squashy side.

 

 

Sherlock uses his new gut to press John into the doorway lightly, his soft belly enveloping John further.

The detective smirks at John’s  light blush, then grabs his hands and moves them to his fat, slightly bare ass.

 

"What the hell, I’m already fat, a few more for the man I love can’t hurt." He leans in to kiss John again

 

Moriarty shouts and interrupts them, "Hey, what about me!? You can’t just leave me here!  Sherlock, I’m not through with you yet. Oh no, we still have so many games to play!"

 

Sherlock looks from John to Moriarty and laughs, "James, 'she eats until she’s full,' and I think after your fat arse, she’s going to be full for a long while."

 

 The detective turns, taking  John’s  hand again, and presses his soft, wide hip into his doctor.  They walk off together toward God knows where.

 

"Do you know, I think I'm getting a bit peckish," John comments thoughtfully, as they walk out of what looks like an old ruin and the door disappears completely. "I wonder if there's anywhere good to eat around here."

 Sherlock chuckles, "I hope so…” 

  
  
“I’m starving."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all enjoyed this tale! We certainly had a ball writing it! Here's to, hopefully, future works!


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